


you're my truce

by kristin



Category: The Wire
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:13:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristin/pseuds/kristin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BALTIMORE stretched across his shoulder in big blocky letters. No fucking curly script, just the lines, straight and harsh, the angles at the top of the ‘M’ sharp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're my truce

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marycontraire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marycontraire/gifts), [Northland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northland/gifts).



> For Northland who wanted a future for Randy, and marycontraire who wanted Carver's guilt. I hope you don't mind sharing.
> 
> Thanks to spiderfire and Nary for helping make this better. Title is from Kanye West's "Lost In the World"

Too fucking cold. That was the problem right there.

When Randy was 18, he left it all behind. Baltimore, foster care and the entire state of Maryland. On the average day, he didn’t even think about. But on days like today, when the Boston wind whipped cold and fierce against the back of his neck, slicing through the gap between his coat and hat, well, on those days he maybe even if missed it.

He stutter-stepped across a patch ice as he neared the end of the crosswalk, eyes cast down to keep an eye for his footing. Fucking Baltimore. Couldn’t fucking escape it. Some days it felt like he never would be able to leave it behind, so a couple years ago now, barely sober enough to be convincing he had decided to brand himself with itnin a fit of bravado. 

BALTIMORE stretched across his shoulder in big blocky letters. No fucking curly script, just the lines, straight and harsh, the angles at the top of the ‘M’ sharp. The marketing guy for the store, he had told Randy what the letters were called once, but he’d forgotten. He’d laughed when Randy had shown it to him, asking if Baltimore was his monkey.

Randy got a fucking write up, official, in triplicate, for walking out of the breakroom and not stopping until he was three blocks away from the shop. Still was better than what he would have gotten if he’d punched him in the face. He needed that job.

There was a blast of heat as he opened the Post Office door, the sticky stench of BO wafting along with it. Randy wrinkled his nose as he joined the line, hopping on his toes, trying to thaw them out.

As soon as he had the stamp in hand he left the building, quick to get out, away from the frantic Christmas shoppers. He slapped the stamp onto the thin envelope, then tossed it down into the box. 

There. That was December done.

 

Before

 

“Cap? Someone asking for you.” Richardson looked skeptical, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. That meant one of two things, either fucking suits or motherfucking suits. It really was a tossup.

Carver slid his eyes shut as he automatically adjusted the cuffs of his suit. Godfuckingdamnit, just because he wearing this didn’t mean _he_ was a suit. Fucking doublespeak in his own head now. What the fuck had become of him? "OK, send them in."

"Hi." The voice was soft, but defiant. Carver looked up. OK. Not a suit then. He automatically started assessing. African-American man, no boy (Jesus fuck, they got younger all the time), approximately 6’, 190. He was looking down at himself, neck curled down into his chest. Hiding.

Who the fuck was that? Some banger walking in to confess? But why would Richardson send him in? "Hi," said Carver, keeping it as dry as possible.

"You said you were gonna look out for me."

It felt like a gut punch, a solid thwack to his middle. He wanted to say something, maybe ask for clarification, but no, Carver didn't need it. He knew exactly who this was. "Randy."

The boy looked up at his name, and yeah, there were those eyes. Carver had seen some fucked up shit in his days. Seen gore and bullshit, dead bodies, survived the devolution of Hamsterdam and fire and bureaucratic bullshit. But when he had nightmares, it was always those fucking eyes staring up at him, and that question, no, that accusation. 

They weren’t often. You learned quick on this job how to sleep at night or you burned out quick. But they happened because-

“Yeah, I said that.” Carver was proud of how steady his voice came out, that it didn’t break, like he was younger than Randy had been back after the fire. “I meant it.”

“Didn’t quite work out for me, though,” he said, staring at Carver now.

Jesus fuck, he was going to give this kid whatever the fuck he wanted, wasn’t he? He mentally started pulling up favors in his head. Daniels, obviously, if the kid needed a lawyer. 

“I apologize for that,” said Carver, considering his words. _Don’t promise anything_ , he thought to himself. He couldn’t do that, not again. “I-”

Fuck. He didn’t have the words. Carver broke eye contact. He just- he knew he fucking failed this kid. He could see it in the way Randy boxed his shoulders and the thin t-shirt he was wearing showed just a hint of what could be a bruise on his bicep. Instead, he stared at his computer screen. Yes, he knew he has a meeting at 3 p.m, but he stared at the pop up until he had memorized the shape each of the letters, like a file trying to override those eyes.

The rustle of fabric, the shushing of the cheap nylon track pants rubbing together made him glance up. Randy was facing the door now, so Carver raised his eyes, safe for now. "This was a bad idea," he said. Carver had to strain to hear him.

"It wasn't."

Fuck. The words were out before his brain registered them. 

"You didn't even hear the idea."

"Yeah, and whose fault is that?" asked Carver, on autopilot. He cringed as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He didn't know where the line was. Fuck, he didn't even know _what_ the line was.

But then Randy laughed. 

OK, he huffed a breath that could be taken as a laugh, his shoulders raising up, like he was trying to contain it, but Carver was gonna take it. He would take anything, really. So fuck it. "Snap fucking judgement right there."

"It’s my birthday." Randy turned around and Carver remembered what it felts like to breathe. "I just-"

He trailed off and Jesus fucking Christ, when had Carver become such a softy. He helped Randy out, prompting, "18, right?"

"Yeah," came the reply, still too soft.

"You were still in a home." It really wasn’t a question.

"What do you think?" asked Randy, voice low and rough. He was staring right at Carver, and fuck. He was bigger now. Could probably take Carver in a fight, and was probably thinking about it.

"Well, I don't have to think," said Carver, gesturing at his computer, trying to defuse the situation. 

He didn't say that he didn't need to use the computer to know the answer. That he checked, sometimes. Hoped, even. Yes, he knew Randy had never made it out of the system, not really. That he bounced from group home to group home. And fuck, Carver would probably have known what today was, if he had thought about it.

"Well I have been-" Randy cut himself off, settled himself slowly down into the chair. The anger had faded a bit, leaving him looking younger, more like Carver’s memories.

Carver wanted to help him, needed it, maybe. Needed to get the fucking monkey off his back. Fuck, he couldn’t see a good ending for this. For Randy. "What have you been thinking about?"

"I don't want to be here," he said quickly.

Carver grimaced, glancing over Randy’s shoulders to the clock. "We can go some-"

"I don't mean _here_ ," said Randy, rolling his eyes. "I mean Baltimore."

"Well, that would be a little harder, then," said Carver, voice pointedly dry.

"I have money for a bus ticket, got a line on a room, maybe even a job." Randy shifted in the chair, but his voice and eyes were defiant, a dare to tell him no.

"Good for you," said Carver. And he meant it. He really fucking meant it. Almost as much as he hoped it was true.

“They want a recommendation from someone they can verify. The job, I mean. It’s not much, just stocking shit but- I need someone that says I'm respectable."

"You could just put down one of your friends’ names," said Carver, carefully keeping his voice level because this shit was important. He needed to know why.

Randy grimaced, shoulders tightening. “Maybe.”

Carver was too damn old to deal with teenagers. Made him almost glad it hadn’t worked out, that they didn’t let him take Randy. Almost. "But you don't trust them."

Randy scoffed. He sounded old, bitter. "Would you?"

Carver reached down into his pocket and slipped a card out of his wallet. He had business cards. When had he fucking stopped being real police? He held one out, calmly. "OK, you can put me down."

Randy stood up and snatched it, pulling it back quickly and sliding it into his pocket without looking, already turning to leave. He was almost to the door when he muttered, "Thanks." 

"Randy-" This was a godawful idea, but he couldn’t let him leave. Carver squeezed the wallet in his hand, assessing.

"Yeah?"

"Where are you going?"

"Home?" said Randy, eyes rolling.

Carver grinned. So he hadn’t lost his snark. "Asshole."

"Boston," said Randy quickly.

"Ah, so you are embracing being an asshole then," Carver replied automatically. But then he thought and- "It’s cold there."

"Wow, they make you take geography to be a fancy police?"

"Yes, actually, but that wasn’t the point. You get up to Boston, then you get a coat. And boots, maybe some mittens.” Carver put the wallet on top of the desk. He watched Randy’s eyes open a bit wider and tried not feel like an asshole, trying to buy his way out of his guilt.

"Mittens?"

Carver waved his hands, fingers together. "You know those things with the-"

"I know what fucking mittens are.” Randy’s voice and eyes were hard again. Carver had fucked this up. "And I don't need your fucking charity."

Carver thought fast. "OK then, no charity. You take this, and you do something for me."

"I’m not getting on my knees-"

It was Carver's turn to roll his eyes, buying for time as he tried to think of what he needed from this brokeass teen. Well, other than absolution. "You are not nearly pretty enough for me."

Randy didn't look like he knew whether to be offended or outraged. He settled for the classic. "Fuck you."

"Nope. Instead, I want you to write to me," said Carver, getting ready to bullshit like he was in front of the city council giving stats.

"What?" asked Randy. And yeah, it was a pretty decent question, considering Carver didn’t know himself.

"No, this is good. I want to know that those lies I'm telling your new boss are becoming the truth. I want to know if you have a place to stay or if you need help-” _I want to know you are OK. I want to know I didn’t fuck over your life so badly it couldn’t be repaired._

Carver cut himself off. “I want you to write to me. Every month.”

“You want me to be your penpal.” said Randy, voice soaked in sarcasm.

Carver grinned. He got him. “Hey, I didn’t say I’d be writing you back.”

“Couldn’t I just text, you know, like a normal person?” Randy whined. Goddammit, he was still so fucking young.

“Nah, this will be better. I like getting mail,” said Carver, because he did. Not that he expected any, really, but- it would be double the surprise.

Carver grinned at the look on Randy’s face. He was in. He knew it, even before Randy asked, “How many letters?” 

“Until you pay me back,” said Carver. _Until I pay you back_ , he thought.


End file.
